


Cross My Heart

by carminnat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst and Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Childhood Friends, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Memory Loss, Reader Insert, Slow Build, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-08 15:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6860377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carminnat/pseuds/carminnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three words of promise, but it's a mystery whether or not it's a promise kept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**September 1928**  


As soon as Miss Finch dismissed the class for break, the group of eleven-year-olds all rushed out the doors and out into the schoolyard to play. Among the group was you, and you’d been running alongside your schoolmates until one of the boys had picked up his pace, his much heavier shoulder ramming into yours.

You fell to the rough ground and pain dragged through to both your knees. You looked up, frowning when the rest of the group ran past you — surprisingly with the exception of the boy who bumped into you.

“Ow,” you murmured to yourself.

“Oh, jeez,” the boy sighed when he turned to see you pushing herself back to your feet. His brown hair was mussed as he maneuvered closer to you. “You all right, miss?”

“Who, me? I’m spiffy,” you responded with an irritated huff. You bent over, swiping off the dirt and pebbles that stuck to your skirts. Luckily you hadn’t torn it, otherwise your mum would’ve been real mad. “You really ought to watch where you’re running.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” the boy replied with a guilty chuckle, rubbing his arm. “Uh, I think you’re bleeding a little.”

“Yes, I noticed,” you said, peeking down at the scrapes on your knees. “I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches, that’s all.”

“Are you nuts? We gotta clean you up.” He moved closer to you, offering his hand. You gave him an unamused stare. “I’m not gonna knock you over again! Cross my heart!”

You were hesitant for another second before you decided best and took his arm. He led you back into the building. “Keep in mind I’m not crossing my heart to not knock you over right back.”

He laughed. “I’m James, by the way. My pals call me Bucky.”

“I’m Y/N,” you replied. “Nice to meet you, James. But just a tad nice, since it is your fault I’m bleeding.”

He half-chuckled, half-groaned. “I’m _so so so_ sorry, Y/N.”

“Okay, okay! Stop fussing.”

“I’ll stop fussing when you quit nagging at my guilt. I don’t like feeling bad.”

“You say that like you were knocked over by a—”

“I’M SORRY!”

**June 1936**

You quite liked this Tom. Tall, hazel eyes, black-haired. Sweet, charming, clearly wanting nothing more than your affection. He was twenty; a year your senior.

Tom was telling you a tale that was obviously hilarious to him. You could vaguely pinpoint something about his sister’s mishap with charcoal and petroleum jelly before you caught the disapproving stare of your best friend Bucky from across the diner.

You suspected that he’d been snooping since Tom had taken you aside from your lunch with Bucky and Steve, which had been about three minutes ago. You nonetheless dismissed Bucky’s stare, turning back to Tom.

You continued to chat for barely a minute before Bucky had stood up, came over, and placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Hey, sport!” Bucky said. “Have we ever met?”

Tom blinked at him and you could only watch confusedly. “N-No. I don’t believe we’ve ever — Who are you?”

Bucky laughed, an obviously feigned smile stretching across his lips. “I’m James; Y/N’s liaison.”

Your eyes went wide. “What? Bucky—”

Tom turned to you, looking just as shocked as you were. “Liais-? Oh, well,” he glanced down at his wrist — at the watch that wasn’t there — and made for the exit. “I’ll best be off now.”

You had barely called out his name before he was gone. Slowly turning back to him, Bucky was standing with a rather smug mask on his face.

“What the hell was that?”

“That was me getting rid of a rat.” He turned his back to you, making his way back to the booth were Steve still sat.

Steve’s mouth was pursed as he met your glare, clearly watching carefully. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered to Bucky.

“He damn well shouldn’t have!” you exclaimed, slamming your fist onto the table. “I’ve been seeing Tom for a week and I can assure you that he is not a rat!”

“He _damn well_ is,” Bucky replied, not meeting your glare. “I saw it in his eyes, Y/N. Cold and bitter. Not good for you.”

You scoffed. “So now you know what’s good for me?”

“Yes.” He finally peered up at you. “And it just so happens that he isn’t one of ‘em.“

“And since when were you in charge of my decisions?”

“Since you’ve been making these goddamn stupid choices! Trust my gut on this, Y/N — you don’t know what you want.”

Silence fell in your area of the diner. Your piercing cold gaze had gotten cooler, Steve’s eyes were wide, and Bucky was looking suddenly very remorseful at what he’d just said.

You grabbed your belongings that sat beside Steve, muttering “The only rat here is you, James Barnes,” before turning your heel and storming out of the diner.

Days later, you didn’t await an apology of any sort. You resorted to simply neglecting him, dismissing even attempts to have contact with him. You remained either in your room at the Griffith, or out and about in the city where you knew Bucky wouldn’t be.

One afternoon, you’d returned back to the Griffith from the library, admittedly curious when Miss Fry had told you a young lad sent you a bouquet of flowers while you were away. You took the bouquet up to your room, slipping the off-white paper card wedged between the stems.

On the card was Bucky’s scrawled penmanship.

_To Y/N,_

_I’m sorry._

_-Bucky_

You rolled your eyes, yet you still decided to put the flowers in some water, setting it in front of your vanity. You really needed more decor, anyway. Your mother didn’t have much of it when she passed away a month after you turned eighteen.

That night, just as you finished setting the pin curls in your hair, there was a startling series of knocks on your window. You pushed herself to your feet, instinctively grabbing your bristle hairbrush next to your mother’s old jewelry box as a substitutional weapon.

Sliding your window open, you gasped to see a pair of hands grasping onto the sill. Bucky tilted his head up, heaving.

“James! What the hell are you—”

“No time for questions, Y/N,” he panted out. “Just — Just help me in. Please.”

“Now, why would I do that after what you said to me?”

“I know—”

“And now I’m risking my living space ‘cause of you!”

“Well, I’m risking my damn _life_ to speak to you, Y/N! Please!”

You were prepared to say something else snappy, but he did make a fair point. You put your hairbrush to the side and grabbed onto one of his hands to tug him into your room.

He took a large, deep breath when he climbed through the window as you slid it closed again. You steadied herself by placing both hands on your hips, furrowing your brows as he examined your bedroom.

“You got my flowers,” he said with a smile.

“What do you want?” you questioned, the tone of your voice biting.

The smile disappeared as he turned to face you completely. “I want to apologize. Sincerely. ‘Cause I really, really am so, so sorry.”

You had barely moved. “Flowers didn’t do you any good…”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, they were Steve’s idea, anyway…”

“Climbing ten feet didn’t help you, either.”

“Gosh, now I think I’ll do just about anything for you to forgive me,” he breathed, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s it gonna take?”

The look on his face made obvious the sincerity of his words, but you were silent. You really weren’t up to saying anything as you noted the sadness in the way he looked at you. Truthfully, you were just tired. Of what? You didn’t know.

“Look, I know what I did was stupid. I know I was a rat. But what’s killing me is knowing that I hurt you,” he said, moving closer, but not touching you. “You’re…you’re my best friend, you know that? I crossed my heart to protect you since I knocked you down and got your knees scarred.”

The corners of your lips twitched upward as you stared up at him. “Actually, you crossed your heart to not knock me over again.”

He smiled.

Before another moment of silence could pass, you finally side and dropped your arms to your side. “If I get kicked out tomorrow morning, it’s on you,” you murmured.

He chuckled as moved to pull you into an embrace that you accepted willingly. “Then come live with Steve and me.”

So when you were dismissed by Miss Fry in the morning, you were already packed.

**April 1940**

“Y/N, help me with my tie, would you?”

You put your book down and sat up from the couch, smirking softly as your hands raised to Bucky’s collar. “You’d think you would’ve learnt how to tie a tie by now. This is the third time you asked me this week.”

“What’re you accusing me of, hmm?”

“Above my pay grade, sweets.” You chuckled as you finished with his tie, brushing the smooth material with your fingertips. “There.”

He thanked you as he turned away to retrieve his coat.

“You’re guilty if you think she’s accusing you of something,” Steve pointed out from the other end of the couch, sketching in his sketchpad.

You laughed again as Bucky lightly punched Steve’s small shoulder. “Quite the opposite of guilty, thank you very much.” He made his way to the door. “I’ll see you two later.”

“Sure you will,” Steve muttered as you waved goodbye before the door shut.

You slumped back to the couch, opting to return to your book and moving closer to Steve at the other end, resting your head on his shoulder.

It was a subtle gesture of your silent distress, and though you were hurt, you still remained quiet. It was nothing you hadn’t done already.

Minutes passed, and your whirlwind of thoughts was suddenly interrupted by the man you almost forgot you were beside.

“You feeling all right, Y/N?” he asked, concern lacing his deep voice.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been staring at the same page for the past ten minutes,” Steve answered with a soft chuckle.

You blinked, realizing that you really had been reading the same page repeatedly without taking in a single word into account. You sat up, shutting your book and putting it aside before you lent over, elbows on your knees. Sighing, you pressed your cool fingertips to your aching temples.

Steve had moved closer, taking the liberty to put a comforting arm around you. “You’re not all right.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m not,” you breathed.

“Then what’s going on?” he questioned, rubbing your shoulder.

You didn’t meet his gaze, staring at the wooden floorboards beneath your bare feet. “I think I’m in love with him, Stevie,” you whispered.

“Who?”

“Bucky.”

Steve had paused.

You nodded at his silence. “Yeah. I’m not crushing. If I were it would’ve gone. It’s petty, I know, but it’s real tough seeing him out to someone else every so often.“

Steve remained quiet. You knew he was thinking of what to say, but what was there to be said? You both knew it was unrequited.

“He did feel the same way about you, you know,” Steve eventually said.

You scoffed lightly, finally turning to him. “When did he ever—”

“Remember when you were seeing — what was his name? Tom?” he asked. You furrowed your brows. How could you forget that? “When Buck did all those things to get you angry and then to climb up to your place… He loved you. He told me beforehand.”

You laughed a bittersweet laugh. “ _Loved._ ”

Steve sighed. “Yeah, I know…”

“God, if only I’d fallen sooner, huh?” you asked, leaning closer to Steve, mimicking the position you were in before.

“How long has this been going on for you?”

“Ever since that night we got that damn radio and he taught me how to dance,” you answered. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not,” Steve assured. “Stop saying it is.”

“I’ll stop saying when it stops hurting,” you laughed back.

He was quiet again, but in between that brief moment of silence he leant his head over yours, comfortingly grabbing your hand. “You’re tough as nails, Y/N, you know that?”

You hummed.

“You’re probably the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he said, the smile obvious in his voice. “There’ll come a time when it stops hurting. Love does that, but it’ll always come around.”

A slow smile stretched across your lips as you squeezed Steve’s hand affectionately. “Did you write that down? Or did you come up with it now?”

He laughed softly.

From there on, you were sure you’d be all right. Steve’s words were embedded into your head for the hours that were spent chatting and joking like you always had. You loved him; you really did. He was the wise but simultaneously the pain-in-the-ass younger brother you never had.

Yet it took you aback later on that night to hear the breathless moans belonging to a woman in Bucky’s room when you went to fetch a glass of water. It stung like hell, and you lay awake through the remainder of the night, weeping silently.

_So much for tough, huh, Y/N?_

**March 1943**

It was only you who had gone to say goodbye to Bucky at his departing, though you fully expected Steve to be there with you, but he wasn’t in the apartment when you awoke this morning. 

You scanned the large crowd in the station, searching for the familiar blond head of hair. With no sign of Steve, you sighed and whipped around, meeting Bucky’s uniformed chest.

“Steve—”

“Said goodbye to me last night,” Bucky interjected, smiling reassuringly.

You let out a small exhale of relief as a weight lifted from your shoulders. If Steve hadn’t said goodbye at all, Bucky would be pretty shaken up about it, even though you knew well that Steve would never do such a thing. But you were wary. You had been for a while now.

When Bucky told you he’d gotten his orders just the day before, you didn’t expect that he would have to leave so soon. You’d asked if he was busy that night to spend time with him, but apparently he had a date. It had hurt you, yes, but not as much as the wariness effected you.

Bucky, Steve, and you all knew damn well of the possibilities. You’d seen a couple other women, too, all lost-looking and so defeated upon their losses.

You refused to have it all end to that.

Out of necessity, you reached up and wrapped your arms around Bucky’s neck. He responded immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist, his cheek against yours.

You became overwhelmed with the emotion. Love. Sadness. Fear.

As if he read what you were thinking, his arms tightened around you. “I’ll write to you. Every week,” he murmured.

You nodded, then shut your eyes as you nuzzled yourself closer. “What will I do without you?” you whispered, mostly to yourself.

He was so close you could feel a wider smile etch across his lips. “Enjoy the quiet in our apartment,” he joked.

You didn’t laugh, however. You shook your head. “I don’t want to lose you,” you admitted, your voice cracking.

He pulled away to get a better view of you, your arms remaining intact. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, but there was no way you would let them spill. You kept her gaze on him to refrain from crying, noticing as his eyes dropped to your lips and back to your eyes.

Your heartbeat increased, wondering what was going through his head. When he kissed you, you could think of nothing but to kiss him back. So that was what you did, savouring the moment while it lasted, almost forgetting your frets.

Almost.

You pulled back, and he leant his forehead against yours. Looking up at him with a small, perplexed frown, you managed to whisper, “What…?“

“Steve told me,” Bucky said with a smile. “Turns out, I love you, too.”

You removed yourself from his grip. Admittedly happy he felt the same way, you became agitated. “So you thought _now’s_ the right time to tell me?”

He opened his mouth, at loss for words for a moment. You could see the guilt that was made so obvious in his eyes whenever he did something to make you upset. He shut them for a second, then took a deep breath.

“I’ve been thinking it over for a while now, Y/N. Even before Steve told me,” he said. “I know I showed it funny. I’m not proud of it. But I’m sure now: I love you. When I’m gone, I’m gonna be thinking of you the whole time so I’ll be sure I’m coming home. I love you, and I cross my heart, I’ll come back.”

You remained still as your heartbeat rang in your ears. The longer you stared back at him, the more you knew you absolutely could not resist. You moved closer, tugged him down by his collar, and kissed him again.

**February 1945**

You returned home from a long day at work, gathering your pile of mail and setting yourself down at the couch. Flipping through the envelopes, you noticed the two that stood out best: one from Colonel Phillips, and one from Steve.

Nothing from Bucky.

You hadn’t heard from him nor Steve in a while and inevitably, it had initiated some worry within you. But looking at Steve’s envelope now, you were slightly relieved.

You were well aware of the two boys’ ventures. Captain America and his team of Howling Commandos were incredibly acclaimed, most particularly here in Brooklyn. Men, women, and children would ask about Steve and Bucky often, to which you’d answer with a smile and pride.

You were incredibly proud of your boys, but that didn’t stop you from being absolutely terrified.

You hold both the Colonel’s letter and Steve’s — whose, at closer analyzation, seemingly had a small rectangular object in it — in your hands, eventually choosing the latter’s to read first.

You pulled out two pages of paper and, shockingly, dog-tags. You scanned the tags, your breath hitching when you saw the imprinting:

_JAMES B BARNES_

_32557038 T42 43 A_

_P_

_He should have these with him,_ you thought, the fright returning. You put Bucky’s tags aside, opening Steve’s letter.

_January 29th, 1945_

_Dear Y/N,_

_I don’t know how late you’ll get this. Truth be told, I don’t know if you know what’s happened yet, either. I’ve been trying hard to convince them to let me come home to you for a bit. I know it’s gonna be hard to deal with this without us there._

_On our last raid, Bucky was knocked out of the train and I couldn’t grab him on time. God, I’m sorry, Y/N. I should’ve gotten there faster. I feel incredibly guilty, but we know who’s responsible for all of this, and we’re gonna stop him. For Bucky._

_I know it must be hurting you as much as it’s hurting me. But I want you to remember what I told you a couple years ago._

_You’re tough as nails. I believe in you. Bucky believed in you._

_I promise I’ll see you soon. Keep in touch, okay?_

_Love,_

_-Steve_

_P.S. — I was cleaning out Bucky’s stuff earlier today and I found his tags. I’ll put them in this envelope for you to keep._

The ink on Steve’s letter was smudged from the fast-falling tears cascading down your cheeks. Your hands were shaking uncontrollably. Your knees felt weak, and though you were sitting, you still fell like you were falling.

_But falling doesn’t hurt this much, does it?_

No. It was excruciating. You let out strangled sobs. You were sure you were screaming, you were sure you were shaking, you knew you were unbelievably broken.

But what you could not bring yourself to accept was that Bucky was gone.

 _You crossed your heart,_ you cried in your head. _You crossed your heart, damn it._


	2. Chapter 2

**May 1946**

“Are you sure you don’t want to come live with Angie and me?” Peggy asked. “It is a bloody Stark manor, after all — there’s room for you somewhere.”

You shook your head at her, smiling reassuringly. “I’m positive, Peg. I feel a lot more at home here.”

She sighed, eyeing you down seemingly for any clues that would tell her otherwise. But you hadn’t budged; you were certain about your decision. As a response, she pulled you in for an embrace. “Well, I will write to you,” she said, pulling back. “And don’t be too shocked when I drop by!”

You waved goodbye to her as she descended down the stairs to the car parked on the street. Mister Jarvis rolled the window down, so you took the liberty and waved to him. He returned it with a smile.

When you shut the door behind you, you took a look around at your apartment. Admittedly, Peggy’s offer did tempt you, but to give in felt like a sort of betrayal to an untold promise. You were unable to bring yourself to leave everything you’ve had in this very space all behind.

Peggy had come knocking on the door a few months back. You felt incredibly honoured in her presence, knowing all she had done in the war. Steve had spoken highly of her through his letters to you, and you were able to see why as you became friends. She invited you to the L&L Automat a couple of times, so you became quick acquaintances with Angie.

Just the day before, however, Peggy announced she would be moving away with Angie to one of Howard Stark’s manors located not too far from the city. It was a tad devastating, knowing that two of your only friends would be leaving you just as quick as they entered your life. But you decided to power through it, and that was what you did.

You got by the next few days after Peggy’s farewell — working, a few futile attempts to make new friends, keeping to yourself. Most nights, you went into your mother’s old jewelry box that held not jewelry but letters and other small objects worth for your own personal keepsake. You reread the letters both Bucky and Steve sent you, leaving you to sleep with either a smile grazing your lips or tears staining your cheeks.

It was a simple cycle. You didn’t expect any disturbances until you came home from a night shift and found the door of Steve’s old bedroom cracked open ajar.

Fear settled in at the pit of your stomach. Your heart rate picked up, so quickly and quietly you moved to the open kitchen for a plausible weapon. As soon as your hand gripped around the handle of a frying pan, the bedroom door creaked open.

Out stepped a tall, blonde-haired woman. You were in no good position to hide, and she turned to you, smiling. “Why, aren’t you just the prettiest thing!” she exclaimed, her heels clicking against the wooden floor as she stepped closer toward you.

“Who the hell are you and why are you in my apartment?” you demanded, your hand tightening around the pan concealed behind your back.

Her red-painted lips turned downward into a pretentious pout. “That’s no way to speak to a friend,” she said. “See, I know your pal Peggy. So that makes us friends, doesn’t it!”

“It does not,” you spat. “You better get out before I call the cops!”

Just when you finished your threat, the woman lunged forward at you. You swung the pan at her, and she dodged your blow without struggle and crouched down to sweep her leg from underneath your feet.

You fell to the floor, the pan slipping from your hand. The woman picked it up and brought it hard against the side of your head.

That was the last you would see of Brooklyn in a long time.

**January 1948**

You awoke in your confined cell with a shiver, your arms prickling cold. You stood from your cot, moving to slide on the large coat draped at the very end. You breathed into your palms and rubbed them together, attempting to bring the warmth back into your fingers.

_What time is it?_

It seemed that you woke earlier than usual. As the custom was, a HYDRA agent would noisily slide your cell door open and demand you to your feet. He would drag you to the near laboratory, where you would be ordered to be sat in front of him. In front of Bucky.

“The custom” made you sick every time you were reminded of it in the morning. You knew that you were there to whisper sweet promises in his ear while the doctors spoke about techniques they would use to keep him in their control just behind you. 

You recalled the moment you first set foot into the lab. Scientists and armed agents alike circulated a figure at what seemed was a surgical gurney. When Doctor Zola ordered them out of the way, you had fallen to your knees at the sight of him — pale, bruised, underfed, and missing his left arm.

Your name had fallen from his lips at the sight of you. It was the last time you had ever heard it from him in such a long period of time.

Zola’s orders were straight-forward, but they were disgusting. But he hadn’t given you a choice. So when you refused to oblige, they had initially tried to rouse you though brutal punishments. However, Zola found a way, and that was through Bucky. It was practical force; you had to say yes. No matter how many times you wanted out after the first time, the end always turned out the same. 

You spent the next while of your morning dreading the arrival of the agent. You couldn’t bring yourself to count the time that passed. You could only hope it would take longer. Of course, the agent arrived at a time too early for your liking. It was always too early. You hoped no one would slide that damn door open.

The agent marched you to the laboratory. As soon as you entered, you could smell the strong scent of blood lingering in the area.

What the hell were they doing?

_What the hell are they doing?!_

Bucky’s groans and yelps of pain had put you immediately into pursuit, neglecting your surroundings. You attempted to push aside the doctors, but the soldier, who still stood behind you, grabbed both your arms and held them back.

Doctor Zola moved from the gurney to stand in front of you and held a hand up. He pushed his mask down and smiled up at you.

“What are you doing to him?” you questioned through a gasp.

“Giving him a gift,” Zola answered. “I promised him a replaced arm, don’t you recall?”

“But he’s awake!” you exclaimed. “Please, stop this!”

“The procedure has already started, _fräulein,_ ” he said. He laughed menacingly. “We can’t stop now!”

A shaky breath escaped your lips. Zola had mentioned something about Bucky’s arm the other day, but you could hardly retrace what even went on that day. Not in this state. You were panicking. _God,_ you hated panicking…

“No, no, no… I can’t-I can’t do this anymore,” you cried, fighting to break from the soldier’s grip. You fell to the floor, and you felt even colder than ever. “I can’t do this to him anymore!”

The men’s voices both in front of you and behind you were incoherent, and you could only guess what they were saying. In response, you repeated one word over and over again: _no._ This went on for well what seemed like forever.

You were refusing. You would be punished again.

“Set her at the chair” was Zola’s order.

_Chair?_

“Sir, it is still undergoing a few alterations—”

“Set. Her. Up.”

Before you could collect your scattered thoughts, rough, gloved hands dragged you back up to your feet. You raised your gaze, seeing that you were being taken to a chair with two curved devices attached from the back and prongs at the armrests. You were forced into the seat, eyes widening when a doctor shoved some a sort of mouthpiece between your teeth and your wrists and ankles became bound.

The devices at the top lowered to your head, and suddenly you could only hear your screams.

**December 1956**

Since you’d been out of cryostatis, you’d been lurking about the base and following careful instructions and awaited when you were finally assigned to a mission. It made you angry, knowing that you hadn’t been out to test your skill after defrosting. You were well-aware of the last two missions that could have gone to you, but instead went to your “superior” — the Winter Soldier.

You didn’t know much about him. They had never let you step over boundaries, and evidently, he was one of them. It surprised you when they assigned you to your first objective, with him as your tactical partner.

You weren’t too fond of surprises.

Two other agents strayed at your sides as you marched to the laboratory. You were curious as to why they were there, but you couldn’t question it. Doctor Zola’s orders, perhaps. As expected, the laboratory was deserted except for Zola, another scientist, two other agents, and who you presumed was the Winter Soldier sitting in the surgical chair.

“I am glad you can finally join us, Agent,” Zola said. “Say hello to your new partner.”

The Winter Soldier averted his gaze from the floor to yours. You nodded your head once as a greeting, but he didn’t respond. The floor soon became interesting to him again.

You looked elsewhere and watched as the other scientist turned to Zola. “Are you sure about this?”

Zola sighed and nodded. “They’ve both been cleared enough times. It should not come to be problematic,” he replied. He cleared his throat, returning his attention back to you. “I expect the two of you know your orders. Report to the rooftop at dawn. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you answered, moving to depart, dropping your eyes to the Soldier, whose in turn followed you as you left.

You were unable to find rest that night. Reasons behind it were unfathomable, so you took yourself to your feet and to the training facility. Your administrators had allowed you access to it whenever you needed it, so you took it to your advantage. More often than never did you feel the need to take whatever anger you felt out on something. It was done usually at the earliest hours of the morning, alone.

What — or rather, who —  you didn’t expect to see was the Winter Soldier on the floor, beating away at the punching bag you usually occupied. You set your belongings down at the floor.

The noise was enough to bring the Soldier’s attention to you. He turned his head, his dark hair falling in his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be resting?” he asked.

You didn’t know why you were taken aback by his question. So he did speak. “I should be asking you the same,” you replied, moving to tie your hair back.

He punched the bag again. “Just got out of cryo — I’ve had my fill,” he answered.

Cryo? He needed that, too? “I’m not feeling sleepy,” you said in turn.

He didn’t reply, so you were left standing for a minute and watching as he punched the bag out of its chains. Impressive.

“Hey, you, uh, feelin’ a spar?” you eventually asked.

He craned his neck and eyed you down. You hated when the agents did that. You always felt it necessary that you break their nose in response. How you wished you could do that now, but you would be in an awful lot of trouble if you harmed that pretty face of his.

“Sure” was his answer, so you took to the mat stationed at centre floor.

You slipped off your boots and prepared your stance. He did the same, raising both his fists. You could hear the mechanical whirring in his left arm, and sure enough you felt dedicated to beat him onto the floor. He just got out of cryo, after all; maybe he was a little rusty.

The two of you circled one another for a good minute. When you finally found the right shot, you made a break for him, moving to nail your knee to his rib, but he moved too quick, dodging and throwing a couple blows to your abdomen. You deflected all of them, yet he still proved to be overpowering. The two of you continued that way for a good fifteen minutes until he managed to flip you over his shoulder, and your back collided with the mat.

He towered above you, so you took the chance. You flipped back up to your feet and grabbed his metal wrist for balance. You locked your ankles around his neck and pushed your legs downward, flipping him and pinning him to the mat.

Eventually, you released him, pulling yourself back to your feet. You turned away to pull your boots back on, but mid-way through lacing them up you could hear two youthful voices in the back of your head.

_“I’m not gonna knock you over again! Cross my heart!”_

_“Keep in mind I’m not crossing my heart to not knock you over right back.”_

You frowned. As you pulled yourself back to your feet and picked up your belongings, you could feel the Soldier watching you. You looked over your shoulder. “See you later, Soldier.”

The mission turned out successful. From that moment on, HYDRA was given its two fists by the alliance they had seemed so hesitant to bring up in the first place.

**July 1965**

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the Soldier told you lowly.

You rolled your eyes. “It wouldn’t have killed me, anyway.”

You peered at the wound in your shoulder and then to the glass of water sitting on the bedside table that held the bullet that was once lodged in your flesh. If you had dove a second later, no doubt it would’ve been stuck in his chest. 

His hand pressed harder against your flesh, halting the blood. You bit down on your tongue to restrain the yelp of pain and let out a deep breath. He proceeded to clean the wound and moved to stitch it up.

“It was still reckless,” he muttered.

You snapped your eyes to him. “ _Reckless?_ ” you laughed bitterly. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

“Didn’t seem like the smartest decision you’ve ever made,” he retorted.

“If I hadn’t moved, you would be dead,” you shot back. “Where’s my thanks in that?”

“Does it seem like I want to thank you?” His voice lowered, his eyes piercing.

“No, but you should be,” you said. “What if it were the other way around? Don’t say you wouldn’t have done the same.”

His jaw unhinged. He knew you were right. He hated when you were in cases like this. He sighed, finishing up with your stitches and bandaging the wound.

As he went to clean himself up in the hotel’s restroom, you took to slipping under the bed covers. The two of you were sent on an assignment in Glasgow. It had gotten hectic, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. 

In a matter of minutes, he returned, slipping opposite you. You turned over to your side so you faced him.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “I would have done the same.”

You quirked your lips to the side and moved closer to him. “I believe I was looking for a…”

“Thank you,” he added. “I just… I just don’t want to lose you.”

You smiled softly. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Soldier. You’re stuck with me,” you whispered back, leaning down to kiss his lips.

“Don’t remind me,” he teased before he tangled his fingers in your hair and took you as a whole.

**February 1971**

Evidently, there were strict rules and regulations set up for an alliance such the one between the Winter Soldier and you.

For years, the two of you had fought to keep the deeper tension under wraps. It was difficult to even try and neglect: there was a link between the two of you, and you wanted to know what exactly that link was. You couldn’t shake him off. And from what you knew now, he couldn’t shake you off, either.

But you both violated those rules and regulations far too many times to count. It was the same process for years — the both of you would be put in cryo for the time being until a new threat arrived. You would train relentlessly, sneak kisses when out of sight, and enjoy your time alone when you had it. During those moments, you thought the both of you would last that way for as long as you had.

That turned out to be a juvenile assumption.

After returning to main base at upon another successful closed case, the least of your expectations was to lose yourself in a frenzy of your own mind. What triggered it? You didn’t know. But you came to recall parts of yourself you hadn’t even come across in such a long time.

You remembered home. You remembered Brooklyn. You could recall Steve sketching in his sketchpad. Dancing with Bucky while he sang so horridly off key to your favourite song of the month. You remembered Steve’s letter, Bucky’s tags tucked into the envelope. Peggy, smiling at you from across the table…

It all came to you in an overwhelming rush. You didn’t know what you had been doing until two agents pushed your door open and dragged you to a room you hadn’t been in since you got out of cryostatis just two months back.

The agents forced you into the chair, quickly activating the retractable cuffs around your wrists and ankles. 

Doctor Zola rolled into the facility in his wheelchair, shaking his head at you disapprovingly. “I must admit,” he began. “I suspect this is all of our doing, seeing as we paired you up with him in the first place.”

“Please,” you begged. “Don’t do anything to hurt him.”

Zola laughed wheezily. “I cannot promise you that. However, watching you go through this will be punishment enough for him. I shall make the final decision after,” he said. “Do not assume I’m unaware of how far you two have stepped over the line, _fräulein_. I was generous up till this point.”

“So why don’t you just kill me?” you hissed. “It’ll make it much easier for you.”

He sighed. “Easier? It would be much more difficult to get Sergeant Barnes to cooperate with us,” he answered. “And you are far too valuable to lose. You have assisted to shape HYDRA. And as my life draws to a close, I intend that you keep doing so.”

As if on cue, two agents walked in, holding back Bucky, forcing him to his knees. His eyes met yours, wide and confused.

“Bucky,” you heaved out. “James, listen to me—”

“Start it up,” Zola ordered.

Bucky was fighting back now, shouting at them to stop. 

Just before the mouthpiece was placed between your teeth, you managed to shout, “I cross my heart I’ll come back to you, okay? I cross my heart!”


	3. Chapter 3

**June 2014**

Your orders were straight-forward.

“Fetch the Winter Soldier.”

It wasn’t “Dispose of him.” It wasn’t “Rid of his existence with a bullet to the head,” or “An arrow to his chest,” or “A slit throat with a knife.” But no matter what it was, you knew he would put up one hell of a fight.

Before being assigned to him, you had heard much about him. You’d seen some of his work. You’d read about it. The Winter Soldier — the fist of HYDRA; the notorious assassin you were ranked directly underneath. Throughout your many years of being shipped off to different bases around Europe and sent to various locations around the globe, never had you encountered him. Never had you been allowed to, never had you dared to.

It was a heavy load put to your shoulders by your administrators. They had even said it was. You rarely asked questions, albeit the tons of them floating unstoppably through your head.

The most frequent was “Why did he run?” 

It was commonly asked manically, mostly enviously. You weren’t unaware of HYDRA’s great fall after the incident in Washington, D.C. a couple of months back. After years and years of utter temptation, you were now sure about it: you _wanted_ to run. But you were on heavy lockdown; they new you were too valuable to lose now that they’d lost their most precious player in the game.

You could sense his presence a few levels down the abandoned warehouse. He was obviously wasn’t trying to make an effort to be discreet; he thought he was alone.

It was you who was being inconspicuous, your every move silenced as you ducked under pipes, flinging yourself from level to level. When you spotted the Winter Soldier on the first and main level, you quickly and swiftly dropped, landing in a tuck and roll and ducking behind one of the many large pillars conveniently scattered around the warehouse. The soldier appeared to be headed to the far left exit from where the entrance was.

You followed cautiously.

Once behind him and matching your footsteps with his, you caught the glint of the dim lighting reflecting off the cybernetic arm you were informed of and told to slide a tracker into. Just as you made a mental note to beware of the enhanced limb, the soldier whipped around, the arm reaching out toward you.

You moved just in time to to nail your left ankle to his rib. He moved to punch you across the temple with his normal arm, to which you promptly deflected with a duck.

Unexpectedly, his left arm caught you right in the hook between your ribs, knocking almost all of the air out from your lungs. You grunted, but the sound was muffled by the mask the covered the lower portion of your face.

When his knee came closer to contact with your nose, you quickly made grab for the knife concealed within your boot and slashed at him. You had only done so much as brush him when he caught you around the waist and forced your body hard against one of the rectangular pillars, his metal fingers curling around your throat and his human hand taking the knife from your palm.

You struggled as the Soldier switched grip — his left hand pinned across your collarbone and shoulders, his right hand pressing the sharp blade against your neck. You slid your fingers into one of the pockets attached your belt, taking the small tracker in between your index and middle. Before he could open his mouth, you brought your knee up hard against his groin.

His grip broke loose, and you swiftly slid the tracker in between the metal plates of his arm as he formed it into a tight fist. You deflected all punches and kicks he managed to throw at you upon recovery.

Deciding to use your slighter form to climb his larger one, you climbed his taller figure, tucked his head between your legs, and flipped him over, forcing him and your knife to the floor. You kicked the blade away from his reach and moved to knock him out with just a blow of your cold fist to his skull.

Abruptly, he shot up, his left hand locking again around your throat, squeezing painfully tight, and threw you hard against the floors. The mask came loose around your face and fell.

Before you could flip upward again, you grabbed your blade. He towered over you, his fist clenching before he threw a blow to her face. You lifted your forearm just in time to push his arm back, moving to slash at his skin with your knife while he had you to the floor, but he changes his grip and suddenly both of your arms are locked in the grip of his metal arm.

Struggling, you raised your gaze to his. Stormy blue eyes peered down tempestuously at you. You were certain you had seen these pair of eyes before, but when you did, they held something different. They were softer back then.

He forced his fist harder against your arms, sure to break them both if he pushed any harder, snapping you out of your brief delusion. But the longer you held the other’s gaze, the wider his eyes became. The more his jaw unhinged, his mouth dropping agape. He looked horrified, but he clearly recognized you.

You gritted your teeth, using his suddenly slack grip to your advantage. You rolled your bodies over, pinning his arms down on either side with your knees. You slid a pistol out from your thigh holster and raised it to his head.

You couldn’t help but feel how the assignment itself was getting incredibly peculiar. As you held the barrel of the pistol to his forehead, the shakier your grip became. The weaker your arms felt. The vulnerability infested your entire body just because you kept your eyes locked with his.

A name slipped from his lips. “ _Y/N._ ”

_…Y/N?_

You struggled to keep the gun still when a rush of foreign-feeling recollections played through your head. Memories you were forbidden to recall.

A shaky breath escaped from your lips. You took the barrel from the Soldier’s forehead and climbed off of him, stumbling backward until your spine was once again pressed against the solid surface of the pillar. Your breathing became shallow. Your eyes were locked with the floors, but they were beyond the warehouse. Never had you felt so weak. So utterly perplexed.

But this didn’t effect your senses; you weren’t defenceless. He approached you, and almost mindlessly your face contorted blankly, masked. “Run,” you ordered through your gritted teeth. “They’re two blocks down. Go. Run.”

The Winter Soldier gaped at you, mouth pursed, brows furrowed.

“Go, Bucky, run!”

You caught the shock in his face at the name that unintentionally slipped from your lips, but he obliged to your unexpected order. He took off in the opposite direction, and then you were alone. You were left standing, panting, dazed and confused.

You were in for a hell of a punishment when you returned to base.

**November 2014**

_March 21st, 1943_

_Dear Y/N,_

_Our ship has arrived in England. Specifically in Newport, in case you’re wondering — which I know you are. I gotta tell you, it wasn’t as eventful as you’d think. But I guess I only say that with an empty mind. I haven’t seen much, but I’ll be sure to tell it all to you when I do. Cross my heart!_

_And before you ask — yeah, I’m OK. I ate well enough to get back to work first thing tomorrow. The food’s all right too. Not the best, but I’m not complaining. Still better than your cooking._

_I’m only kidding, of course! You know, I still wonder how you think you’re a bad cook. I don’t remember my Ma's cooking exactly, but yours is better!_

_...please don’t write to her and tell her I said that._

_Remember that time she visited back when you first moved in and she thought you and me were together? I never told you this, but when she took me aside, she said, “That girl is a real catch and you haven’t bothered to ask her out, James? Well, I won’t be surprised if Steven got to her faster than you!” But nada, am I right? I’m guessing that punk told you I was pretty damn stuck on you back then._

_Which reminds me — something happened earlier today that made me think of you. I knocked a guy down and he scraped his knees. Who would have thought these slacks they’d given us would tear that easy? His name’s Gabe Jones, by the way. Real nice guy. A little taller than me, which makes us both wonder how in hell I got him to fall. I’ll admit he played it off nicer than you. He’s a bit of a softie; he’s got to. He speaks French like another guy here in the 107th. They’re all real nice too._

_The first thing they had asked me was if I had a girl back home once. I said yeah, I do. Guess what? I told them it was you. But I sure as hell hope you’re not thinking the other way around... Have we called it yet? Because I just want you to know that I still love you. I really really do._

_Speaking of which, how are you? You enjoying the apartment’s quiet without my horrid singing? Did Steve head out to the Induction Centre again? Did you bother to stop him? What new books are you reading? What new songs are you singing? Are they nothing without my bad singing?_

_I’d really like to know. It’ll savour me pieces of home while I’m here._

_Love,_

_-Bucky_

_P.S. A couple days in and I’m missing you like crazy!_

You reread over the wrinkled letter in your hands. When you decided you had read it enough times, you slid it to the back of the thick pile of letters you placed on the floor beside you. It was the first of many tossed into a small, old jewelry box that held anything but jewelry.

You had told the woman at the front desk that your grandmother once lived here. You were to pick up any belongings she had left before she died. The woman had flashed you a sympathetic smile that you couldn’t bring yourself to accept and allowed you up the elevator.

The apartment, however, was near empty. The furniture was gone. The closets were — for the most part — cleaned out. You’d entered each room curiously, wondering which one had been yours. Of course, it happened to be the one with walls decorated in flowery wallpaper that was peeled almost entirely.

When you pulled the wooden closet open, you felt that you knew where the box was; concealed at the highest shelf. Turned out you were right. You already knew it was a memory box you were glad you had made. Going through it, you found everything you hoped would pinpoint a memory for you.

A picture of three children — of Steve, Bucky, and you. You stood between the two boys, your two arms slung around both their shoulders. Smiles etched each of your mouths.

An “I’m sorry” card from Bucky that seemed so vague without it being wedged between stems of flowers.

Another photo, except this time, it was of a much taller and broader Steve clad in his stars and stripes, Bucky, and the Hollowing Commandos.

You flipped through the pile of letters. The majority was from both Bucky and Steve, but the last in the pile was from Colonel Phillips, which addressed Steve’s death. This was easier to remember. Maybe it was just easier to retrace pain.

You lowered the letters back to the box, pausing when you caught sight of a chain glinting in the sunlight that shone through the window. You swapped the letters for the chain. Hanging from it were dog-tags — Bucky’s dog-tags.

You read the imprinting over as you remembered the day you received these in Steve’s _godforsaken_ letter. Involuntarily, tears built up in your eyes. Eventually, you dusted the metal off and slid the chain around your neck. You didn’t know why, but it was just comforting to have a piece of him while you were alone.

After your first unclosed case and failed mission of the Winter Soldier, you were set for another wipe. “It’s mandatory,” they said. Why? You remembered him. But that was your breaking point, and you managed to flee the HYDRA base. It wasn’t easy, especially since you were completely on your own, but you were alive.

The only question in your head was “Where do I go from here?” You glanced at the small, black rectangular hard-drive that held files upon files about you and the Winter Soldier that sat on the floor next to the jewelry box. You thought you knew a lot from those files of yours, but staring at the contents that lay in the box now, it was clear that you hardly knew yourself at all.

You placed the hard-drive in the box and enclosed it over with the attached lid. You stood up from the wooden floor that creaked under your feet. Tucking Bucky’s tags under your plain white t-shirt, you returned to the lobby.

The woman at the front desk gave you another pitiful smile when she noticed the box in your hands.

God, you hated that.

**May 2015**

By the time you decided to take to D.C., you were sure you were reasonably at a high rank on both HYDRA’s radar. You kept a close eye on them through the limited resources you had (a stolen cellphone and a laptop). But when you heard of the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian Institution through immense research, it practically called out to you.

Before you’d escaped HYDRA, you managed to snag a couple gadgets specifically for undercover purposes. You had gone cautiously, armed with a knife that would easily be skipped by detectors. You were dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, a jacket, and fake glasses. 

It was strange to read so much about these people you should have been familiar with. Even more stranger to read about yourself in a small display next to information about Steve before the war. Whilst you read over Bucky’s display, however, you felt a pair of eyes on you somewhere in that crowded exhibit. It was your immediate signal to get a move on. So you left the museum, treading carefully, your fingers curling tight around the knife in your pocket.

“Excuse me, Miss. Miss!” a male’s voice called from behind you.

You stopped in your tracks and slowly turned around. The man in front of you was fairly tall, clad in a green shirt and a dark jacket, a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. It wasn’t HYDRA. It was the Falcon himself. It never crossed your mind that you would be face to face with one of Steve’s latest colleagues. You didn’t know much about him other than his involvement in Project Insight. Why the hell was he following you? 

You put on an casual, curious stare.

“Sorry, I was just wondering where you got those tags,” the Falcon said with a smile, revealing his slight tooth gap.

You chuckled confusedly. “Um, tags?”

“The ones you’re wearing,” he clarified, gesturing to Bucky’s dog-tags dangling from your neck.

 _Shit._ Shit, how did you forget to tuck them into your shirt?

You looked down at them, your mouth forming a taut O. You smiled up at him innocently. “They were passed down to me from my grandmother. Think he was the lover she never told my grandpa about,” you explained, laughing lightly at your own sentiment. You shrugged, taking one of the tags in between your fingers. “I don’t know. I thought they looked pretty neat.”

“They should. I mean, they _did_ belong to Captain America’s old buddy,” Wilson said.

You nodded. “That, too. Look, if you’re offering me a deal to buy them or something, I’m sorry. They’re a big deal to me, you see.”

“Oh, no. I just have a few questions for you.” He leaned in closer, revealing the interior of his jacket, a Glock promptly tucked into the pocket. “Do you mind taking a ride with me?”

You let a low chuckle. “I mind very much. I will call the cops.”

Wilson laughed in turn. “No, you won’t. I know who you’re working for, so I suggest you don’t make this any harder for me.”

You instantly dropped your façade, slipping off the fake glasses and tucking them into your pocket. “Oh, no. What gave me away?”

“The knife you kept playing with in the museum,” he said. “That a bad habit of yours?”

You smirked one-sidedly up at him. “Is that really how you’re gonna play, Sam Wilson?”

“That’s how I’m gonna play, Lady-Whose-Name-I-Don’t-Know,” he answered, grabbing your arm and dragging you to a car parked by the bench across the street.

“Maybe you should ask your Captain; he knows my name,” you retorted bitterly. You had to remind yourself that this Sam Wilson wasn’t the bad guy.

He glanced at you. Through his tinted lenses you could see the curiosity in his eyes. Just before he beckoned you into the passenger seat, he took at a pair of handcuffs from the other side of his jacket and locked them around your wrists.

“Is this really necessary?” you asked.

He dismissed your comment and shut the door. You watched, annoyed, as he took out his cellphone, making his way around the hood of the car and outside the driver’s door. Inside, what he was saying was incoherent, but what you guessed was that he was speaking to Steve. He hung up just after he entered beside you.

He eyed you suspiciously. “I don’t know who the hell you are but I know what you’re capable of. You best not try anything.”

“You’ve already got me handcuffed, Wilson,” you responded, sitting back as comfortably as you could while he started the engine and drove off to God knows where this interrogation would be insinuated. 

It turned out to be a completely deserted tourist stop off the coast of the city. Sam held you by your forearm, leading you inside. The roof was mildly narrow and there was barely any light except for the hint that shone in the next room that was evidently occupied by someone from the gaping holes in the walls.

“Sam?” you heard a voice call from said room. 

Your heartbeat suddenly picked up in your chest. It was Steve; you were sure it was. He didn’t know that you were alive.

“Yeah,” Sam called back, dragging you into the room.

“Who’s—” Steve paused mid-way through his question when he caught sight of you. His jaw visibly tensed and his eyes widening. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost, which would probably be the theoretic matter. Your name left his lips in a light gasp.

You could hear your heartbeat in your ears as you met your old best friend's horror-stricken gaze. You forced yourself together and managed out a simple greeting. “Hiya, Stevie.”

But your little interlude had sparked not an interrogation. It was driven by Steve’s shock, Sam’s quiet onlooking, and your overall loss at the upper hand. Not that you cared.

“How are you alive?” Steve had asked.

“Same way you are,” you answered.

He got the idea. “So where were you all this time?”

“HYDRA.”

You assumed that he would be both unshaken and stunned by your answers. But they were the truth. They happened to be extremely baffling, being both predictable and bewildering. You supposed his next question was fairly reasonable: “And what are you now?”

“I’m rogue. A fugitive from injustice, I suppose.” Also the truth.

There was a brief moment of silence after that. Steve was clearly perplexed and Sam still looked down at you with pure distrust. You waited for anything that would inevitably come, sure that you were ready to give out answers. But when Steve’s eyes dropped to the tags dangling from your neck, you recalled your primary push for running.

“You kept them,” Steve muttered loud enough for you to hear.

You got the picture now. “I found them,” you corrected. “You two are looking for him, aren’t you?”

But Steve was still intent on the tags. Sam spoke up in turn. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”

You turned to the other man. “Not exactly,” you answered. You searched in your head for any probable implement you could give. _The tracking device._ “But I do know that there’s a retriever GPS tracker in his arm.”

The two men shared a glance. Sam left your side and made toward the backpack that sat at the near corner of the room. “Whoa — hold up. There’s nothing on file about a tracker,” he eventually said.

You looked at him. “File?” 

He gave you a hard look and held up a folder with bold Russian letters centred on the cover. _The Winter Soldier_ , you were able to read.

You furrowed your brows. “When was that file last updated?”

“Day before the Insight launch,” Sam answered.

You beckoned closer toward the two. _Might as well tell them now._ “About a year ago, HYDRA commissioned me to bring him back. The retriever played half of the assignment in case he ever did run off again. So it was me who put the tracker in his arm,” you explained. “Only problem is, that tracker is accessible through a software HYDRA made for their eyes only. But I coded a malware into the software before I escaped the base so his tracks would be eaten up. Luckily, I salvaged what was left on a portable hard-drive.”

“Is there anyway you can reprogram it?” Sam asked.

You shook your head. “I’ve tried. Guess I did my job too well.”

Steve looked down in thought, and when he came to a conclusion, he turned to Sam again. “Natasha.”

"She and Maximoff done in Monaco?" Sam questioned.

Steve nodded. “I spoke to Nat yesterday. They’re back at HQ.”

There was no more to say other than that. Steve and Sam had a quiet discussion with you left out, so you kept quiet until they revealed to you they decided upon taking you to the Avengers Headquarters in Upstate New York. You hadn’t questioned it.

“You got the hard-drive with you, right?” Steve asked.

Your shoulders dropped. “If I’d known I’d be kidnapped by the Falcon and brought to you, sure — I would’ve kept it in my pocket."

“So where is it?”

“The Carlyle Dupont. Hidden decently, if you must ask.”

“The hotel?” Sam asked.

You nodded. In response, they shared another glance. You tapped your foot, waiting patiently until Steve signalled you with a curt nod. The drive there was relatively quiet. Sam opted to sit beside you at the backseat in case you did “try something” to which you rolled your eyes at. You were in no place to try anything.

Arriving at the hotel, Sam released you from your cuffs and Steve followed you inside to your room. Through the entirety of your walk, you could feel his eyes on you in disbelief and distrust. Even more so when you entered your room and grabbed at your duffel bag stuffed with clothing, a laptop, a cellphone, and the necessary weaponry.

Steve was obviously wary.

“Relax,” you said, rummaging through your bag to make sure everything was in place. “Picking a fight with Captain America and his buddy is too conspicuous for my position on HYDRA’s radar.”

“It’s not that.”

“You say that like you’ve never seen your dead pal alive before.”

He was silent until you finished and zipped up your bag. “Where’s the hard-drive?”

“Here.” You positioned yourself onto your stomach and peered under the bed frame. You made grab for your jewelry box at the corner and straightened yourself back on your feet again. You held the box in your hands, moving to unlock it.

“We thought Bucky would be in Brooklyn,” Steve said. “Didn’t think your jewelry box would still be there.”

“I guess I just hoped _something_ was in our old apartment,” you replied. You reached for the black hard-drive and raised it up eye level. “Wanna keep it, or should I?”

Steve blinked at the object in your hand. He sighed, making grab for it and analyzing it in his hands. “This has gotta hold more than that software.”

“It doesn’t,” you confirmed. “Four terabytes worth of storage on one thing — you kidding? HYDRA has a lot of dirt up their sleeves. I stocked up. You and your Avenger friends can use it to your advantage if you’d like.”

He looked off to the side in thought. You pursed your lips and peered down at the still-open box in your hands. You were able to see Bucky’s scrawled handwriting even through the folded paper. The temptation to read it again almost took you out of the notion, but Steve had spoken up again. “You said that you were ordered to bring him back. But you didn’t.”

“I made that call. Not exactly one HYDRA approved very much of, clearly,” you said, your fingers moving to fiddle with the chain around your neck. “It was an idiotic move on their part to send me after him. But it’s definitely something I don’t regret.”

“How much do you remember?” Steve asked.

Your shoulders dropped. “A little bit. I remember Brooklyn. I remember getting your letters. Peggy Carter, some music…” You sighed. “Not a lot to go on, I’ll admit.”

He was quiet again, but he wasn’t in thought for too long. “Let’s get going.”


	4. Chapter 4

**June 2015**  


_To Y/N,_

_I’m sorry._

_-Bucky_

If you could define the term “simplicity” pertaining to lifestyle, this would perhaps be it: sitting on an old friend’s sofa and listening to him speak to you as if no time at all had passed since the last time you’d been in his apartment.

You were beyond grateful for Steve’s kindness toward you, but most times you were cross with yourself for not giving more to him than he was to you. Though you knew he didn’t expect anything in return, it was tough to keep your urge to repay him under wraps.

Maybe that was just how your mind worked nowadays.

Your arrival at the Avengers Headquarters a month back had sparked quite the controversy. You were brought to a few many debriefings and obediently answered as much questions as you could. You were took aside as the barely-reformed SHIELD discussed your place in their hands to Steve. You were confined in a large, glass, tube-shaped, evidently extremely thorough holding cell for a few weeks. And when you were (un)officially liberated for the time being, you were officially Steve Rogers’ responsibility.

So, yes — you owed it all to him. But thinking about it now, you realized you did have one way to help him. You were brought back to HQ every so often to help Agent Romanoff with decoding the malware you’d installed into the program that tracked Barnes’ location on the hard-drive. Steve and Sam’s “covert” mission was nearing a go, and with that you felt at least a fraction better.

Listening to Steve now had you in touch with your memories. This happened every so often, but it was still a difficult search. You supposed this story — this memory — was a definitive event in the young Y/N’s life. Some boy named Tom, Bucky’s hasty reaction, his flowers, climbing up to your window despite your landlady’s strict principles. When Steve finished, you realized you were mindlessly fingering the small piece of card-stock that was in fact Bucky’s apology card as you pictured everything unfold. Yes. You could remember that.

“So he really went out of his way,” you said.

Steve smiled softly. “And the two of you called me brash.”

The corner of your lip twitched, but a thought occurred to you. You lifted your stare from the card to the man beside you. “You said you loved me doing all of that. Did I ever feel the same way?”

He sank back into his seat, sucking in and letting out a deep breath. “It gets a lot more complicated than that.”

“You and I both know that at this point, complicated is an understatement.”

Steve paused at your words and gave you a look of reluctant agreement. “The thing is, he’d moved on knowing you didn’t feel that way about him. But as time went on, you did,” he said.

You looked down at your fingers that now fiddled with the chain of the military tags. Wrapping your head around the mess of the romance between the old Y/N and James Barnes became a lot easier. You thought bitterly about it. “Even way back when, we never really were too good at timing,” you mumbled aloud.

Steve paused. “Y/N?“

It was too late to go back now. You hadn’t told Steve about it previously, and he never asked (though the temptation was clear in his part), but it didn’t do him any good if you spared him of any other secret between Barnes and you in your HYDRA days.

You took deep preparatory breath. “He and I were assigned together to do all HYDRA’s dirty work. But we…did things; things far against precaution. It was hard not to. I think he and I had a feeling that there was more to our lives than just the killing, and being closer to each other just pushed it on. And for years, we assumed we were doing okay, and that no one would find out, but… Time screwed us over and we were both punished for it.”

You zoned out until the warm contact of Steve’s hand on yours brought you back. He rubbed a thumb over your knuckle, not a look of sympathy but one of a promise grazing his face. And for just a second before he’d said anything, you swore you could only see the smaller, frailer Steve you’d known before the war. “We’ll find him, Y/N,” he assured you. “I promise.”

**July 2015**

It was at the crack of dawn when you received word that Steve and Sam had returned. Judging by the scarce responses from the both of them, they’d certainly run into SHIELD’s advances, what with the appearance of the Winter Soldier at their hands. So you arrived at HQ, supposing that he’d be given the same debriefing, same custodial choices until further notice. Turned out, you were near correct. But his restrictions drew further than yours.

The doctors chose to authorize visitations to Steve and, rather surprisingly, you. Aside from their distrustful view of you, your affiliation with Bucky was no secret to them. At least now, they had sources to conduct their little peek into what was left of their latest subject’s humanity.

And it wasn’t as if you couldn’t say no. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. However, you weren’t entirely sure that you wanted to see him just yet, and especially not after your last run-in over a year ago. Fortunately, the doctors permitted you the time to think about it.

It had taken you a mere 24 hours. It had taken Steve’s coaxing. It had taken you a whole night rereading through Bucky’s old letters to you. It had taken turning over the same question repeatedly: What would you say to the man you’ve been through hell with? And really, the only answer — both sentimental and illogical — that you could come up with was absolutely everything.

Now here you were, treading carefully along the hall that led you the unmistakable large glass cage you were held in a mere two months ago. It felt strange to be on the other side. It felt strange to lead such a direct conversation. And perhaps the strangeness of it all persuaded your habitually silent footsteps, because you hadn’t noticed it until the equally unmistakable figure in the cell had tensed in his ever-so still stature.

You stopped in your tracks. Though you did, his attention had perked at your presence. He turned over his shoulder, jaw clenching, muscles straining as his eyes roamed over you. You were caught still under his rather intimidating gaze, but wondered why he appeared shocked at your sudden appearance.

“Hi,” you began, crossing your arms over your chest. He didn’t say anything back, so you cracked your mouth open again. “I take it they didn’t tell you I was coming.”

“They didn’t tell me you were here,” he corrected promptly. His voice was low and weak, like he hadn’t spoken in days, which you feared would be the true matter.

His answer, however, was what concerned you most. Steve hadn’t mentioned Bucky’s awareness of your new alliances (if that was the appropriate term) the night before. Neither were you sure if the doctors had told him beforehand. He’d perhaps assumed you were still in the hands of HYDRA, especially after all that happened in that night at the abandoned warehouse.

He turned to face you completely, both hands visibly balling into fists. It was clear in his demeanour that he hadn’t forgotten that particular night. “What do you want?” he stiffly yet gruffly demanded.

“I’m here to help you,” you told him, sure to be careful with the phrasing but to no avail.

Your poor choice of words received a darkening stare and a volatile presence. Yet his response, surprisingly, was laced with vulnerability: “I’m not going with you.”

Then it dawned on you. He was afraid of you. He thought you were back to your original orders: fetch the Winter Soldier. He thought you were playing the game differently. No — familiarly. Far before they’d tweaked your mindset.

The mind games they would play on him, replacing what was real with things far different while keeping you at his side to get him to obey. The images sprouted in your head. Him strapped to the medical table, blood-stained bandages wrapped over what was left of his left arm, eyes wide and alarmed, chest heaving up and down. You had knelt down at his side, telling him over and over like a spell: They’re only trying to help you, don’t fight them, you’re gonna be okay…

“James,” you gasped out lightly, dropping your arms and stepping closer toward the glass dividing the both of you.

He’d flinched at the unexpected use of his first name; recognition softening his features for a split second before he was angry again. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“But I don’t—”

“—I can’t do that anymore! Please.” The brokenness was clear even through clenched teeth, unwillingly tugging at your chest. “You’re not her,” he continued solemnly, quieter, “you’re not real…”

You stood, unsure of how to appropriately respond. It was always you at the other end, struggling to account, reluctantly accepting the words of comfort usually from Steve. But now it was your turn. So you allowed your instincts to kick in and you warily stepped closer toward the glass. “James,” you said again. “This is real. I’m real.”

“I don’t believe you.”

You pushed on. “I escaped HYDRA, I’ve been with Steve this past few months, helping him find you. Listen to me.”

“Why should I?”

Your hand raised to clasp around his dog tags, but you’d tucked them under your shirt before entering. You sucked in a breath, and the words flooded out after a bare second of thought. “You hated to feel guilty. You would go sprinting when Steve or me was in trouble. You liked music, too. You were a dancer; you taught me how yourself.

“You were my assigned partner for years. You’d taken bullets for me. When I couldn’t sleep, you’d let me into your quarters.” There was stunned moment between the both of you. You dropped your guard entirely, letting out a light breath and finishing off. “I know you, and you know me.”

He held your stare, his obvious distrust of you near unmoving. You let your shoulders fall stiff, backing away from the glass with a step, retrieving your high guard to shield your newfound hopelessness. Before you noticed that he’d caught on, you were already making toward the exit. It was only the sound of his weak voice that brought you to an abrupt halt.

“You never took your coffee without sugar. You read a lot of books. You’ve got scars on your knees, from that time I bumped into you at the playground.” A light breath escaped your lips at the memory he’d suddenly brought back and you turned over your shoulder. “Y/N,” he added, locking his stare with yours. The distrust was gone, recognition in its place. “Yeah, I remember you. You were the only good thing that came out of it.”

The tension in your body had subsided. Your grip around the push-bar of the door slackened. You were tempted to stay, but you were absolutely at loss for what to say in response to that. So you held his stare for another moment — another heartbeat — and pushed the door open.

**September 2015**

Bucky’s move to Steve’s apartment had been inevitable in your eyes. Again, it was the same matters you had undergone, and he wasn’t in any place to argue. You only found it convenient that Steve had another guest bedroom in his apartment left unoccupied up until Bucky’s substantial arrival.

“It’s better,” the doctors stated, “that he be near familiar faces.” Like familiar meant anything close to friends.

You didn’t know what to call your current relationship with Bucky. It certainly surpassed acquaintanceship. It wasn’t part of your job to see him everyday. And it wasn’t necessarily a choice, either. He had warmed up to you since your first encounter with him months ago; quite impressively, too, considering the following ones had opted for most credit.

You recalled one of the conversations that had stuck with you.

“Do you remember everything?” he had asked you.

“Not everything,” you answered. “Just bits and pieces. I can knit ‘em together once in a while, but most of the time, I… Well, Steve’s there to help with what he can.”

He nodded slowly, understandingly. “So all those things you said you knew about me,” he said. “That was Steve.”

“Well, no. Not in that case,” you stated, standing. He eyed you strangely, so you carefully explained as thoroughly as you could. “These things, they come sporadically. But in that spur of the moment, it brought a lot back. You meant a great deal to me.”

“Is that supposed to make me trust you?” His tone wasn’t as bitter as it once had been, but you quickly got his intention.

Your mouth had cracked open, tempted to utter out another “no,” but if you were truly honest with yourself, you knew you’d be lying. It was one of the habits that had stuck with you. So you opted for the truth, laid out with no bumps: “I don’t know if you can trust me, but I do want you to.”

He had scoffed lightly in response. “You don’t what you’re asking,” he told you, warningly.

You weren’t unsure of why he would urge you to be cautious. Still, your fists had clenched. “I’m not asking,” you retorted, almost too defensively. You reminded yourself to remain calm, but that was far unlike how you truly felt. You set your jaw and released your fists. “Steve can’t help with everything. I get stuck, and there’s no one else who might know,” you honestly said. “You were a big part of my life. And I just need…”

You had trailed off, nearly turning to give up, but he had appeared to have took in your words. So he nodded slowly, uttering out a simple, quaint, “Okay.”

You thought it was this conversation that prodded your natural instinct to keep seeing him, to speak to him, to make yourself a part of his life again.

And maybe it was that way for him, too.

The “healing sessions” were a done deal. They happened often and without any sort of specific schedule. To put it simply, they just happened. And you were obligated to share and regain as much as you possibly could. So far, it was getting easier, yet you were unable to allow yourself to accept that that was all that mattered.

But none if it took away from the dark shadow lingering over both of your heads. It wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t something you could wake from. You could hardly shake it off. You bore witness to torture. You had lived lives, and had taken them away from others. How could you accept the possibilities if the catches were great risks?

Bucky understood that well enough. It was no secret. You were sure to keep yours buried, unsure till what meantime, and he did the same. That was but until the time he had overheard a conversation between Steve, Natasha, and Sam at Headquarters.

He’d brushed past you in the hallway leading up to the deserted floor of the building. Both curious and concerned, you followed closely behind. “Hey,” you called after him as soon as the two of you were away from sight of any onlookers.

Bucky kept his head angled downward, fists visibly forming at his sides. What could have upset him?

You moved to position yourself in front of him, keeping a fair distance, but he was close enough to touch. “You okay?”

He only briefly met your eyes. “Yeah.”

Still, you didn’t believe him. And you knew that he knew that. “What happened?”

His face hardened, turning to side-eye the window overlooking the training grounds outside. “They’re thinking they could use extra hands in their fight,” he explained lowly, swallowing before he continued. “The first two names Steve brought up were ours.” 

It was simple. Straight-forward. The Avengers were considering Bucky’s and your recruitment. At first glance, to say the least, it was a matter you would think you could simply think over and agree to. But in a mere few seconds had you contemplated the consequences and the reluctance building up inside you.

Yet “Oh” was all you could manage out.

Bucky finally held your stare, suspiciously, like he was searching you. In the past month or so, this had turned out to be a habit of his — analyzing the way you reacted to pinpoint exactly what you were thinking. You couldn’t be content with it, but you weren’t at all irritated at him for it either. After all, it was a habit of yours, too.

Suddenly he turned away from you, letting out a sharp breath that resonated a light scoff. Had he read you correctly, you weren’t sure.

“If you look at it from one side, we got a shot at redemption,” you started. “And I know doing all of that won’t erase the things we’ve done, but…”

He shook his head. “It’s not that.”

His eyes fell downward again, and you followed his stare to his left arm. The plates shifted according to the tension he felt, and right then had his fists slowly unclenched. You averted your stare back up to his face. “This just wasn’t made for the good fight.”

“And I assume by ‘this’ you mean ‘you?’”

He didn’t say yes, but his silence was the clearest confirmation you could get. “I’m not cut out for it, Y/N.”

“Then what does that make me?”

“That’s different.”

You were taken aback. “How?”

He paused, clearly straying further away from you. “No, you don’t understand—”

“But I do.” There was a near break in your voice and he obviously noticed when he looked at you again. You shut your eyes briefly, sighing deeply. “You know that I do.”

He was attentive to you now, still and almost remorseful at what he’d told you. You approached him and mimicked your previous position in front of him. But this time, you reached for his left hand and took it in your right. He was about to pull back; you could tell by his wrinkled brow, but you silently prodded him. When he caved, you slowly wrapped your fingers around his palm, locking your stare with his.

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter that you’ll never be the same person before all of that and who you want to be,” you told him. “Because despite what you might think, you are capable of moving forward and fighting the good fight. You are a good man.”

He gave you a painful and an in-denial look. “But I’m not.”

“You can deny it all you want; I’m gonna keep reminding you,” you threatened pointedly. “Look, I just want you to know that.” 

When he’d allowed your words to sink in, you released his hand and unwillingly shrugged off the loss of contact. He analyzed you again. “But what about you?” he questioned.

You furrowed your brows. “What about me?”

“You’re not afraid of saying yes,” Bucky said. “How is that?”

You sucked in a large breath. “After all these years of not getting to make a choice, it’s a tough call. It’s thrilling, I guess,” you said, nodding carefully and wrapping your arms around your torso. “But if we weighed out our options, it’s either laying on our asses all day or actually making use of our time.”

There was the barest hint of a smile on his mouth. You were tempted to return it, but you continued seriously. “I know that there aren’t a lot options out in the open for us. I don’t know if we can make up for the things we’ve done, but it’s worth a try.”

“A shot at redemption,” Bucky murmured, repeating your words from moments ago.

You nodded, and with a long look was he able to agree with you. So with that, you beckoned him back down the stairs, and he followed.

**November 2015**

Just hours ago were you sitting at Steve’s quaint dinner table in the kitchen. Where were you now?

You certainly weren’t outside; you could feel a hard wall in front of you. But it was too dark — practically pitch black — until the hint of light shone from behind you. You turned. The light came from no source, but you couldn’t bring your focus to that: it was to the person that it shone upon.

It was Bucky. Beaten, bloody, on his knees. You lurched forward, a gasp escaping from your lips, but you found that the sound was restrained from the mask covering half your face. You looked down at your attire. No. You had stripped from this uniform a long time ago.

Stunned, you made to reach for Bucky, but he flinched from your hand. And then you saw it: his blood staining your fingertips. Then, it began to sink in.

From the shadows behind Bucky, you could see them: the bodies of everyone you had ever killed. You were aghast to find the Avengers scattered around the floors closer to where you stood. Steve. Sam. Natasha. Colonel Rhodes. Maximoff. The Vision.

I did this, you thought with utter fear. You looked back to Bucky, who stared up at you with pain and betrayal. There was a voice ringing through your earpiece. A disgustingly familiar voice.

“Rid of the weak link.”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to fight. But there was a prickling pain coming from the sides of your head, and suddenly, you weren’t thinking anymore. Your hand fell to the gun in the holster on your hip, grasping it tight and holding it up to your target’s head with ease. Your finger curled around the trigger. One, two beats later, you shot.

The second he fell to the floor had you snapped back into yourself. You pried your mask off, gasping out his name and moving to kneel down beside his lifeless figure. But there were hands pushing you backward and forcing you to a place you swore to yourself you never wanted to see again. They were too strong. They had the upper hand. And though you wanted to fight back, you couldn’t. So you screamed, you pleaded.

“Y/N!” A startling voice called.

Your eyes snapped open. In the dim light, you could decipher a figure of someone, and your alert instincts kicked in. You fought him, attempting to fend his hands off of you, but you felt far too weak. You were shaking. Your throat was sore, yet you continued to shout and scream and cry.

Strangely, he didn’t grip you tighter. He didn’t fight you back. But his hands fell to either side of your face, forcing your dark stare to meet his blue, and you wrapped your fingers around both his wrists, gasping. “Look at me, Y/N,” he told you. “It’s me. It’s me.”

Your hands loosened around his wrists. “Bucky,” you breathed out.

He nodded carefully, his hands falling from your face to your shoulders, rubbing a thumb over your collarbone. You looked down at your shaking hands, inhaling deep breaths and letting them out as steady as you possibly could. When you finally drew, closer to reality, you snapped.

Tears filled your eyes, overwhelming your senses and nearly causing your unawareness of Bucky’s slightly firmer grip on your shoulder. However, you placed your hand over his to guide his touch away from you. Your name fell in a murmur from his lips, but you were almost frightened to look up.

You were well aware of the usual: It’s not real. You are okay. They can’t get you here. It didn’t matter who it came from, but it wasn’t relative anymore. Because this latest “dream,” this horror, had finally pushed your buried guilt to its edge. And you were unable to keep digging further.

You raised your chin carefully, shutting and opening your eyes and intaking a large breath. Bucky was definitely perplexed than anything, but more concerned than anything. You brought your knees to your chest, momentarily biting down on your bottom lip. “There’s something I’m not telling you,” you started through a light sob. "I think you’ve known for a while.”

He only stared, eyes narrowing at the corners. So you continued. “Months after you fell from that train, they brought me to you. They had a custom, and they got me to say yes. And everyday, I’d have to tell you not to fight them, not to move, while they did these things to you…” It was hard to admit without the pressure. The remainders triggered your tears. “I’m so sorry, James. I didn’t—”

He pulled you taut into his arms. You cried against his shoulder, struggling to fend off the horrific images in your head, apologizing over and over. He shook his head, letting out a breath that ruffled your mussed hair. “I know,” he murmured softly. “But I’d never put the blame on you.”

You held your arms around his neck, the both of you waiting until your breaths and heartbeat fell at steady rhythms and for your body to relax in his arms. Once it did, he had cradled you backward, placing your head back onto your pillow. Then he stood and turned to leave, but your hand caught his.

“Don’t go,” you whispered. He was clearly unsure, but you pressed on. “Stay. Please.”

Bucky hesitated for another moment, and though you were extremely fatigued, you were adamant to keep persisting. Soon he let out a soft breath, crossing over to the other side of your bed and climbing in beside you. You shifted in your place to face him and moved closer as he pulled the covers over both of your bodies.

Just before you let yourself fall into a peaceful slumber, he’d pulled you close to his heartbeat and murmured something that you were far too gone to coherently catch.

**January 2016**

_January 10th, 1944_

_Dearest Y/N,_

_A thousand apologies for the delay in the letters! Things have been real crazy around here lately. I know how worried you’ve been since I last wrote to you. I’ve got a whole stack of yours write beside me. I have read em all, by the way._

_You’ve heard all about what’s happened with Steve, I’ll take it, so I’ll spare you the details of that. But have you heard about our team? We call ourselves the ‘Howling Commandos’! I haven’t the slightest clue whose idea it was to call us that, but hey. Better than ‘Captain America’ alone, am I right? But I’m only jesting, as usual._

_…don’t worry. I’ll keep ‘em brief._

_It’s late where I’m writing this (Cosenza, Italy) and there’s just so much on my mind. See, we took to town today and we had the time to take a look around and awful conveniently, there was a jewelry store nearby. Up close set up at the window was this real pretty diamond ring, and I was thinking, ‘I bet Y/N would really like that.’ And I think you would’ve. Sure, you think everything’s got a little pretty in em but…_

_You know, I’m not too keen on what I’m getting at right now myself, Y/N. We’ve only hardly had so much time to call ourselves a couple. Hell, I haven’t taken you out yet, and that’s bothering me to the point where I know it’s gonna be just you and me everyday as soon as I get back home to you. Would you like that? And Steve could come along if he wants, of course, but I’m sure he’d be open to giving us more space now that he’s got a girl of his own. He’s probably told you all about Peggy Carter already._

_Well, back to my point. I’ve been loving you for so long and I feel like this is how it’s gonna be forever and on and til’ I’m dead. This is how I saw it years ago: you and me married, maybe one or two kids running around the house, Steve living with us, knowing we could never get rid of him…_

_Funny how it’s easier to imagine when you’re younger and it feels so much easier to hold onto. But sitting here now, I can see it. We’d have to haul ass, for sure. I feel like that’s something worth fighting for._

_It hasn’t been a whole year since I left home and I’ve seen too many people lay down their lives. People with a family and friends — their cause to win, their cause to come back home. But they don’t. And knowing that some of these guys never got to live their perfect life they dreamt up…_

_I know now how goddamn lucky I’ve been. It’s crazy just thinking about it. I suppose that’s what time does to us folk._

_So I didn’t get that ring at that shop, but when I come back home to you (and I will!), I’ll find you one just as nice. I do want to marry you one day. I do want the long haul. If you need the time, I’ll give it to you. Scratch that — I’m up for anything as long as it’s with you._

_Love always,_

_-Bucky_

_P.S. Can’t believe I forgot to tell ya: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, my love! My sincerest of sorries, again. I haven’t got you a present (yet). By the way, how have your holidays been? Tell me all about it!_

The corner of your lip twitched upward reading the postscript, but dropped as you refolded the letter and tucked it away in the breast pocket of your coat. You pulled your coat tighter around your body, peering down at the extremely busy streets of the city.

Tony Stark’s New Years Eve parties, you heard and knew now, was always extremely lavish. You were sure in your brief conversation with him that he’d claimed “toned it down” this year around, but you could hardly believe that. It was all much to take in, not to mention in the ever-so eventful twelve months you had. So you snuck out (though it was obvious no one noticed) and found your solitude out on the balcony moments after countdown.

Prior to leaving Steve’s apartment hours ago, you had taken one of Bucky’s letters with you. This one in particular perhaps on a whim of significance. But that was just a presumption. It was partly true, however you realized now that you’d brought it just to think, and think you did.

How did your spend your holidays? And not just the holidays of 1943, but of your entire life before all that had happened. It was a question perhaps left to be answered later, but it couldn’t hurt to ponder. You were pondering everything Bucky wrote in that letter.

He had the full intention to marry you. Despite the vulnerability he was inevitably feeling in that position he was in, he would’ve taken it slow if you wanted to. And though you could’ve been wrong, you were sure you had wanted the long haul, too.

“You’re missing the party,” you heard behind you. So maybe someone did notice your absence.

You didn’t need to turn, but you did anyway, and Bucky — clad in a jacket over his button-up and his long hair pulled back in a low bun — was already making his way to stand next to you. “There’s a lot going on in there,” you replied, mimicking your previous position. “I just needed some air.”

He nodded and followed your eyes down to the streets. He understood. You knew he did.

Lately, you found it difficult to keep your eyes off him. You found yourself cherishing every glance he would give you, every conversation you would have, every touch. Strange habits, you’d thought initially, but you grew to understand they weren’t habits. You really did admire him. He really did make you feel things you weren’t sure you could feel anymore.

He noticed your staring, earning a curious glance from him.

“Your, um, tie’s crooked,”  you pointed out, gesturing toward the askew grey tie around his collar. He moved to fix it, but fumbled with the knot, and you chuckled. “Here.” You reached out and adjusted the tie, all the while you felt his intense stare on you. Finishing with the tie, you met his eyes, and in a mere second was everything blue.

He cleared his throat and turned, leaning against the steel railings. “I forgot to tell you: Happy New Year.”

You gave him a small smile. “Happy New Year to you, too.” You mimicked his position. “It’s crazy,” you said after a second, and he raised a brow. “To think after all these years we’ve missed, this last one’s been the longest,” you elaborated.

Bucky pursed his lips and turned back to the city streets, leaning against the railing. He was feigning concentration on the traffic below and the uproar of the New Years Eve parties both behind you and in Times Square, but he was certainly thinking. You’d seen that look only when he was. “You ever wonder,” he said after a moment, “what it all would’ve been like if none of this happened?”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?” 

“You and me,” he replied, meeting your eyes. “If I’d kept that promise and came home to you.”

There was a tug in your chest. This topic had never been brought up before, and strangely enough, you felt it was far too soon to talk about. …wasn’t it? Well, maybe you weren’t so sure. The long-harboured affection back in the day was no secret to either of you. But you hadn’t even known that he remembered that promise he made; you hadn’t even known that you remembered that godforsaken promise.

You struggled for words, but you kept your mouth shut, still surprised at the sudden mention of the memory that caused you the heartache you hadn’t felt since getting Steve’s condolence letter that February of ‘45. Your hands gripped around the railing, and Bucky could perhaps see the perplexity of your current predicament, as he’d put a hand on your shoulder.

“You didn’t…” he needlessly started.

“No, I…” You fought to collect yourself. “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

“That kind of thing’s hard to forget,” he said, still on the line of the subject.

Though you weren’t entirely sure of it a minute ago, you gathered yourself and decided that you were, too. His hand fell from your shoulder after a brief, reassuring squeeze, and you swallowed before you spoke again.

“My best guess is that we’d be either dead or old,” you started lightly. “But we’d have lived our lives to the fullest. We’d have married. We’d have a few kids — one or two. They’d grow up happy, calling Steve their uncle, maybe playing in the front yard of the house and… Yeah. The easy life.” Your voice had trailed off, and you weren’t looking at him anymore. You weren’t looking at the city, either; instead, at the life you never had and perhaps never will.

Bucky followed your silence with the sad truth in a quiet whisper: “We missed our window.”

You bit your lip. Truth be told, you did have an open window after the war. You’d always known that. Bucky, maybe, did too. But had you wanted to live that life you’d just directly translated from his old letter with him out of the picture? No. You even knew that now.

“But all of that seems so out of depth where we’re at now…” you said in a broken yet resentful voice. But why would you be so resentful at a chance you never took? You briefly closed your eyes, loosening your grip around the railing and peering back at the man beside you once opening them again. “The weird thing is, wherever our lives may be, it’s always me and you caught up in the mess.”

Suddenly you were aware of the shortening distance between the two of you. His eyes fell to your lips, half-lidded and curious. “Yeah,” he whispered.

There was a sudden desperation building up within you. You tilted your chin upward, the temptation riling up your instincts, but you pushed yourself to back away. And that you did. “We should probably get back inside,” you suggested, avoiding his eyes.

“Right,” he muttered breathlessly, following you back into the Tower.

**February 2016**

The month since the New Year had led you to thinking — no, believing — that the long months of recovering and growing back together sent mixed signals. This was why you never should have let it happen in the first place. This was why you felt so goddamn stupid to even think about it.

The next few days following the incident had prompted the sparingly growing distance between the two of you. It was strange. It was infuriating. But you had instincts, and that was to regret the whole night and to pretend it never happened. Besides, Bucky was sure doing a fairly excellent in his part, which was to do the exact same thing. So it was never brought up in the brief conversations you’d share. It was never spoken about to anyone else.

You initially thought this was a good thing, as you’d have more time to think about other ordeals. You appeared at HQ often to assist the Avengers in all the information about HYDRA facilities you’d gathered into that hard-drive. You started a new training regime with Natasha and Sam. You talked to Steve whenever you returned home, mostly about how your days went, sometimes about the way back when.

Luckily, Bucky and you had gotten back into the swing of your friendship. The occasional quirk of a smile. The quiet conversations leading into a deep and peaceful slumber after a nightmare. Reminiscing.

Upon learning that the Avengers would set off for a few days in pursuit of a research facility you’d suggested they hijack, you had to come to terms with the fact it would just be Bucky and you. Not that it would necessarily go awry. But that feeling you’d gotten that night… It was difficult to simply hold down.

Tonight the two of you sat on the couch, chatting about some of the contents splayed out across the coffee table. You faced him, eyeing the military tags you’d finally returned in his right hand.

“There was a song,” Bucky said, “you used to sing it around the apartment when you were busy.”

A song? You had hardly even thought about the music. “I don’t remember that,” you replied with a frown.

He looked up at you, brows knitting together. “I do. Sometimes you’d sing, sometimes you’d hum it. Whenever I tried to join along, you’d tell me that it wasn’t a duet.”

Your mouth pulled into a smile as you remembered the moments in which that happened. “Suppose that’s ‘cause you weren’t a very good singer,” you teased. There was a certain lightness in your tone, your old accent lacing through. Bucky noticed; there was that ghost of a smile his lips again. “So what was the song?”

“I don’t remember exactly,” he said. “Something about…a rainbow. It was from a movie, I think.”

“Oh!” you exclaimed. You shifted in your seat, preparing to pick up the melody you were still familiar with. _"Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high…”_

Bucky perked up at your singing, watching you intently. Upon forgetting the lyrics, you’d drifted off in the beginning of the song. So you sat in silence for a moment, when Steve’s old records sitting by the television caught your eye. You stood to shuffle through the music until a familiar title would catch your eye. Then you found it: Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.” You set it to the record player and turned back to meet Bucky’s curious stare as soon as the music began to fill the living space.

He seemed to recognize the tune after only a second. It was refreshing to hear it again; you’d only been familiar with the title after the mention of it in Bucky’s letters to you. It had been the song he’d taught you to dance with. It had been the song he’d heard on the radio in sleepless nights at base camp, thinking about you…

You stepped back toward the couch, holding hand out and grinning. “You may not have been a singer, but I bet you were one hell of a dancer.”

He hesitated, but it didn’t take long for him to give in. He took your hand and stood with you, backing you the open space of the living room. “I don’t—”

“Just feel the music,” you instructed. You placed your arm over his left, curling your fingers around his shoulder. The metal plates shifted from underneath his sleeved shirt and your grip. You looked into his eyes as assurance, and his right hand gripped your left more securely. You slowly began to sway and step to the slow jazz, surprised at the simplicity of the dance and at his capability to lead you on.

The two of you danced only to the music. There were no words shared until he took in a breath and spoke up. “That night at Stark’s,” he started, and you were tempted to look away at the mention of it. “You didn’t think about the easy life before, did you?”

You pursed your lips. “You wrote about it in a letter,” you said. “You said we’d have all the things I said. I hadn’t thought about what could’ve been before, but I liked the idea. It’s nice and sad to think about.”

His expression shifted. He was stern, but not mad. His grip on your waist had tightened, but not to the point where it hurt. “We’ve been in this mess for far too long.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” you questioned earnestly, closing the gap between you two little by little.

Bucky swallowed, momentarily turning away. “I’ll never be that guy again, Y/N,” he said brokenly. “I can’t give you the things he could’ve.”

You paused in the dance, refraining your hands to your sides. “Is that really all you think I want from you?” He stood his ground, speechless and watchful. “James, I know that it’s far out of reach for us. I can accept that. But right now, I…”

“You don’t know what you want,” he said darkly.

And perhaps you would’ve snapped. Perhaps you would’ve broken down. However you knew you’d dealt with that particular statement before. “But I do,” you told him. “I’ve already chosen a life with that guy. I’ve already chosen the Winter Soldier. And now, I’m choosing you.”

“Why?”

And here it was. The heavy truth that you’d bore for a while and never had the will to admit to yourself. “Because I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.”

The tension in his muscles visibly faltered. He was taken aback, and so were you, but you had never been so afraid of a coming response since the last time this had happened. “Y/N, I’m a monster,” he said lowly.

You stepped closer to minimize the distance between your bodies, tilting your head upward. “Then let’s be monsters together,” you suggested in a whisper, taking his hands in yours.

He didn’t pull back, but he didn’t move, either. “I could hurt you.”

You shook your head lightly. “But you wouldn’t.”

You could see that he knew you were right. He gripped your hands tighter, sighing lightly and leaning in further into your embrace. 

You stared into his eyes, admiring the colour in the room’s lighting. “Do you really still think you broke that promise?” you asked in a whisper.

He didn’t answer. He only released one of your hands and wrapped his arm around your waist, inched in closer, and kissed you. There was that urge to only respond to his kiss. Your senses were overwhelmed with daze and familiarity, wrapping your arms around his neck and nearly neglecting the need for breath. 

When you did break apart, he pulled you into his arms, burying his face into the crook of your neck. You sighed into his shoulder, still swaying to the fading music. 

“I choose you, too, you know,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Cross your heart?”

You felt his small outtake of breath against your skin. “And hope to die.”

**End.**


End file.
